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Colin is reading the Muppet Magazine when he stumbles upon a gorgeous two-page spread. In it, the very elegant couple Miss Piggy and Kermit are dining outside a lavish kitchen, with vibrant pink curtains that rival the shine of technicolor and a nice view of the city behind. So, of course, amazed Colin sits up to show it to Cătă, saying, "This would be us if we got really famous one day."
Cătă raises his head a bit to see, squinting. "But aren't you already famous?"
"That modelling gig? You know it's nothing..."
"I wouldn't call it nothing, I think you did great. I think all that love was great."
"You would say that." Colin smiles.
"Excuse me?" Cătă smiles too, a little confused, a little offended.
Colin just giggles and goes back to the pages.
"I really believe that, you know. I think you deserved it." Cătă's offense is truly just a playful act, like he's offended at Colin's lack of self-esteem, on Colin's behalf. "I think my friend deserves to know himself and his potential."
"Potential's the keyword there. I don't really have the fame."
Cătă wants to say something but holds back. He thinks of the semi-local magazine he bought one day just because it had Colin's face printed on it, a year before, when the two hadn't tied that friendship yet and he was still chasing after a stranger's memory. Of course Cătă doesn't get what Colin is saying... In his mind Colin's face is already plastered on every building and surface. Colin is famous in his heart. Colin is everywhere.
Colin lays back down on the other extremity of Cătă's black and fuzzy air mattress, one leg bent up, the other barely touching Cătă's own legs.
But Cătă doesn't want to see just his hands and legs, so he sits up then. "What would you do if you were rich and famous?"
"Mmm..." Colin murmurs, "If we were rich and famous..." He closes the magazine and puts it on his chest. "If we were rich and famous I'd take you to every restaurant in town..." He looks at Cătă. "We'd go to the mall every day and get everything there too..."
"We'd get everything on the menus??" Cătă gapes.
"Yes." Colin smiles and tilts his head towards him.
Cătă stares at the wall, imagining it all, feeling full just from the thought. "I think I'd explode."
"That's the beauty of it." Colin's smile turns cartoonishly-toothy, tinged with evil and mischief.
Seeing that, Cătă grins too and counterattacks. "What would you do then? Cut out the restaurant walls with all my exploded remains and send it to an art gallery?"
Colin's eyes widen, a little taken aback by the random scenario, but he settles in a moment. "No, I'd take you home."
"Aw." Cătă feels weak. "Home to your villa, right?"
"Mhm." Colin imagines hiding Cătă from the paparazzi as if the man was a rockstar's mysterious girlfriend. "Very private." Colin, if it wasn't obvious enough, is very possessive.
After a bit, Cătă is the one to break the silence again. "And what else would you put in there?"
"Well…" Colin lulls his raised leg left and right. "Our villa would have a nice fluffy conversation pit and I'd sleep in there all day, and it'd be nice."
"Real nice."
"With you splattered on the walls..."
"I'd already forgotten about it, haha!"
"There's no decoration as priceless as that."
"Sure, whatever you say, man." Cătă's heard many weird things come out of that guy's mouth.
"There'd be the largest kitchen you've ever seen..."
"Mhmmm."
"With a pretty arch entrance."
"Yes..."
"And the kitchen island would be big as well—"
"So you can fuck someone on it?" Cătă rushes in.
"Yes, of course," Colin jokes(?), "to get fucked on it."
Cătă's surprised at that, but not so surprised at what his own mind is already conjuring. "Alright." He blinks. "Alright, yes."
"And there'd be an opening to the back garden, and there'd be a big terrace with the starry city panorama, but far enough that it's quiet and there's no weird smells..."
"Sick."
"I'd like it." Colin looks at the mind-made-panorama ceiling, daydreaming. "I'd dance in the terrace. We could practice together."
"Remember I'm still on the walls."
"I'd take one of the wall panels off the walls and dance with it."
"But what's a dance choreographer good for if he's an abstract piece of art splattered on a wall?"
"I'm sure we'd find a way to make it work, Cătă. I could just take one from the wall, wrap my arms around—"
"But wouldn't the others get jealous?"
"Would they?" Colin turns to look at Cătă.
"I mean—" Cătă stammers, "I mean— wait! How many of me even are there!"
"How many wall panels?"
"How many wall panels."
"Uh..."
The two stare at each other.
"I don't know." Colin looks quite perplexed. "Four—?"
"No, no." Cătă shakes it off. "It was a stupid question, sorry. Where were you?"
"Dancing."
"Right, dancing with the giant wall panel, yeah."
"Oh, I'd get so many vinyls..."
"HELL YEAH!"
"I'd have them playing day and night and no one would ever complain... EVER!"
"WOOHOO!!!" Cătă cheers so excessively loud that he knows he will get a complaint later.
Colin almost falls off the mattress at his surge. "I'd play True Blue first!"
"OHHH!" Madonna-lover Cătă falls back down on the mattress.
And this time Colin really drops onto the floor.
"FUCK, I'M SO SORRY, DUDE!" Cătă rushes to him.
"If I was rich...!" Colin barely whispers and laughs. "I'd call an ambulance." He flops on his side, tongue rolled out of his mouth.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The end.